


The Cuddle Factor

by McKinney_Wylis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 20:35:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McKinney_Wylis/pseuds/McKinney_Wylis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s headed for a night on the town and Sherlock’s pouting inexplicably. Now what could be going through the great detective’s mind... </p><p>Time setting: Between "The Great Game" and "Scandal in Belgravia"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Off Out

John Watson pulled on his shirt as he came downstairs; the faded blue always seemed to work well for him. He’d had enough women go on about his eyes whenever he wore it. Now a bit of a touch-up in the bathroom and he’d be ready to go.

Trolling with an old rugby mate hadn’t been his first choice for tonight. Not until Sarah caught him as he was leaving the surgery.

“We need to talk.” Never, _never_ good words from the woman you were dating.

She’d been nice about it, very gentle, enough they could still work together. But the heart of the matter was she needed more stability in a relationship than he could give her. She understood his connection with Sherlock and the hypnotic draw of the adventure to a man like John; she just couldn’t live with it herself. John could understand that, and her honesty had been refreshing even if it did sting a bit.

So when Bill rang up and asked him to come hang out for a night at the pub, it sounded better than staying home and listening to Sherlock dissect every little factor of his wrecked romance. _God, where’s Mycroft when I need a diversion?_

“You’ve not worn that shirt before. Not since I met you.”

Yep, a diversion in the form of an officious, self-satisfied older brother would have been most welcome. John worked up his buttons. “It’s just a shirt.”

“No, it’s not.”  Cool blue went to deductive grey.  Damn.  Dissection time.  “Were it a regular shirt, you’d have worn it prior to tonight.  Yet it isn’t new.  There are signs of wear on the cuffs and the edge of the collar near your right ear.  So you’ve worn it frequently, but not to work.  And not on cases.  So when do you wear it?  Out.  But not with Sarah.  Why not?  Sarah is your girlfriend.  Or was.  So you don’t wear this particular shirt with your established mate, either.”  A dark brow twitched.  “The color is complimentary to both your skin tone and your eye color, rendering you more attractive to potential sexual partners.  Therefore, this is not _just_ a shirt.  This is your _looking to have sex with a stranger_ shirt.”

“I’m not _looking_ to have sex!” Yes, he should have expected the _oh-please_ expression before he opened his mouth. “Okay, I guess I’ll rephrase that to I’m not necessarily looking to have actual sex with anyone, stranger or otherwise. Not that I’d balk at the idea, but...” Hell. Now it was the _oh-really_ look making his ears burn. “It was in the trunk of stuff I stored in Bill’s attic when I went overseas. I just got ‘round to unpacking. And yeah, Sarah broke it off with me today. Happy?”

“Reasonably.  She wasn’t in any way worthy of you.  I’m certain—what is the correct phrasing?  Yes.  I’m certain you can do much better.  In fact, I know it.”  Sherlock’s intense gaze swept John.  “But you shouldn’t go out.  Isn’t this sort of thing considered reckless?  Getting drunk and having dangerous sexual encounters to forget an unpleasant breakup?”

God help him. “For your information, it wasn’t as unpleasant as it could have been. She was very nice about it, said that she understood my tendency to...adrenalin overload. She just needs more from a relationship than what I can give her, that’s all. We’re still friends. I’m only going down to Mulligan’s for a pint with Bill. If there happens to be a nice girl who wants to dance...”

“Pfft.  Dull.  Boring.  There’s no challenge there.  I could go to Mulligan’s—well, actually, no.  It makes me ill to go there.  But any moderately non-nausea-inducing club, and have any nice girl or not-so-nice girl I wanted.  Or better yet, any nice or nasty boy I wanted.  That’s not the point.  The point is it would be boring.  Useless.  Tedious beyond my ability to tolerate.  And worst of all, it would be pointless.”

“Why does Mulligan’s make you ill?” John figured this conversation could continue just as well while he ran a comb through his hair and splashed on a little aftershave—just enough, never too much. He headed for the bathroom. “And how exactly would you manage to pick up a stranger, boy or girl, especially if they all bore you to tears? Sorry, I am still listening. But I told Bill I’d meet him there at eight and I’m running a bit behind.”

“Mulligan’s is indescribably pedestrian.  It’s the epitome of mediocre.  There is absolutely nothing of interest there.”  Sherlock’s voice followed John, though the man himself remained behind.  “And what do you mean, how would I manage to pick up a stranger?  I’m very adept at it.  I’ve had to do so several times for cases.”

 _He has a point._ Still, trying to picture Sherlock in the middle of a nightclub making eyes at some sweet young—or older, who knew what the preference might be—thing just left John having to refocus on his reflection in the mirror. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. It’s just hard to picture, is all.”

“Really, John.  Use the brain I know you have.  I’m quite beautiful in a way that appeals to both sexes.  My voice can be modulated to be immensely stimulating.  I’m graceful and dance very well and very sensual when need be.  How could you think I wouldn’t be successful at seduction?”

 _Still can’t picture it, mate._ John smoothed down a last annoying cowlick with a touch of product and went back into the kitchen. “All right, I’ll tell you what. Tomorrow night, barring a case, you show me how it’s done. Your choice all around. Location, all of it. I’ll even behave tonight. Nothing more than a couple of pints and a dance or two.” He smiled at the glare he got. “I’m not saying you can’t do it. I just would like to _see_ you in action, so to speak.” He took a step toward that pout leaned up against the kitchen counter, Sherlock’s arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Come on, consider it an experiment.”

“For you.  I’ve already conducted the experiment several times.”  Sherlock sighed.  “Oh, very well.  I’ll prove to you I can have my pick of London’s nightlife.”

“It’s a date.” John caught the smirk. “Stop it. Have you got something to keep you busy while I’m out, or should I phone Lestrade and have him put the fire department on alert again?” He couldn’t help a grin at the renewed glare and the not-hard-to-deduce-at-all desire to slap John upside the head gleaming in Sherlock’s eyes. “Just checking.”

“Go, indulge your need to have a drink with your friend.”  Pale eyes raked the blue shirt again.  “Text me if you’ll be late, so _I_ don’t call Lestrade and report you’ve been kidnapped again.”

“Deal.” John glanced at his watch. “Oops, I better dash. I’ll see you later. Mrs. Hudson made a shepherd’s pie today and brought up a plate for each of us. Yours is in the fridge. Eat. Occasionally even you have to refuel. I’ll see you later.” He tucked his shirt in, grabbed his jacket and headed down the stairs to catch a cab.

 


	2. Tea and Biscuits and...Oh My!

The faintest strains of a violin welcomed him out of the cab later that night. Mozart, by the sound of it, something frustrated and wild, like a bird trying to beat its way out of a cage. A new case then, some sort of puzzle needing a frantic soundtrack as it ricocheted around the corridors of Sherlock’s mind. _So much for tomorrow night._ John found it a bit of a disappointment.

His evening hadn’t gone quite as expected; not that he hadn’t enjoyed catching up with Bill or had more than one woman approach him. But it felt...strange. Empty. Hollow. _Boring._ The same routine he’d done while he was at uni, the few bars he’d been to on leave, the same old workable, comfortable routine. God, it was deadly dull.

He climbed the stairs quietly, not wanting to disturb Sherlock in the middle of a brain-dance, wondering what adventure they’d be off on next. But he stopped as the violin screeched to a halt, Sherlock’s low, musical voice replacing it.

“So, no sexual escapades tonight, Doctor?  Perhaps tomorrow will be better.  Shall I seduce an extra for you, or would you just prefer to watch?”  The smooth baritone floated down the stairs, all velvet bile.

The man deserved a beating. Regularly. John only partly veiled his irritation. “I told you I’d be home early. A couple of pints and a dance or two. And that’s what happened.” He climbed the last of the stairs and headed for the red armchair he usually claimed. “You haven’t got a case? You were playing your...puzzle music when I came in.”

“I was working on a puzzle.  It just wasn’t a case.”  Sherlock placed the violin and bow in their case.  “I do occasionally think of other things.”  Arctic eyes met John’s.  “Ah, so your evening was disappointing.  I told you it would be.  You really should listen to me.  I’m generally right.”

“Not...disappointing so much. Predictable.” He hated admitting it. “But then I wasn’t aiming for much adventure tonight, remember? Bill noticed, though. Gave me a right ribbing for it, said I’m losing my touch.”

The faintest twitch graced the corners of Sherlock’s lips.  “I warned you Mulligan’s is boring.  Crap telly is less tedious.”  He picked up the violin again and settled on the couch.  “Tea, John.  I’ll play Mendelssohn.”

“For Mendelssohn I’ll ignore the absence of a ‘please’ in there.” He dropped his jacket over the back of the chair and moved to fill the kettle. “Did you actually eat something tonight? Don’t make me nag you more.”

“Yes.” Drawn out as only Sherlock could, an unspoken “boring” lighting the air of the flat in neon colors. Then the expected silence and thump of long, narrow feet onto the sofa, and John imagined the dirty look boring into his back.

“...too blasted _cuddly_ for your own good...”

Surely he hadn’t heard... “I'm sorry, what?”

“Absolutely impossible to argue with...”

 _That’s more like it._ John chuckled as he set the kettle on to boil. “Good. If you’re not arguing with me, I might manage to get you to eat more than once a week.” More silence. “Maybe even twice a week.” He rummaged in the cupboard for the last of the biscuits.

The growl sounded about right.  John didn’t catch the first part of the mutter, or even the second.  “...damned jumpers.  No man should look appealing in those.  It’s an affront to logic.”  The mutter decreased and the violin strings sang in protest, most definitely _not_ Mendelssohn.  “...completely detrimental to clear, concise analysis...”

“What?” He checked the tea tin and made a mental note to add tea to the shopping along with the biscuits. “What did you say?”

The plucked strings of the violin answered, sharp and discordant.

“Sherlock?”

"...constantly gallivanting off to romance..."

"What the _hell_ are you wittering on about?" He hadn’t even realized he’d poked his head out of the kitchen and was now glaring at the prone form on the sofa. He took in the wide grey eyes staring back at him and felt immediately contrite. “Sorry. I couldn’t hear you is all, just got bits and pieces and...sorry. It wasn’t cause enough to snap at you.”

“You.  You’re not...logical.  It’s irritating.  I understand the appeal you have for a great many women.  The safety factor.  I get that.  But now it’s even impacting me.”  Pale eyes flashed with irate fire.

“I’d hardly call me safe.” The kettle bubbled and he turned it off, pouring water into two cups where he’d already added a teaspoon of sugar for himself and two for Sherlock. “Former soldier, front lines, all that post-traumatic stuff going on, you know...”

“It’s not that you’re safe, John.  It’s that you make others feel safe.  It’s the...cuddle factor.”

“The _what_?” He wasn’t sure he’d heard the word “cuddle” actually cross Sherlock’s lips. Fortunately he still had the milk to add to their tea while he recovered.

“The cuddle factor.  It’s all part and parcel with those damned jumpers of yours and the almost knightly courtesy and that giggle and that grin and... all of it.  It makes it patently impossible to maintain a decent argument with you, to even remain miffed at you for any length of time—especially if you go off in inclement weather—or to do things that make you get that completely annoying look on your face.”  The violin nearly screamed in displeasure.  “It’s absurdly unfair of you.”

“Because I’m...cuddly.” Okay, maybe those nicotine patches were laced with something considerably stronger. John regained his composure enough to bring a tray with their teas and the plate of biscuits over to the coffee table, nudging Sherlock’s feet further back so he could sit. “You’re joking, right?”

The death-glare clearly indicated Sherlock was as far from joking as he could possibly be.  “You’re doing it now.  Were you anyone but you, I would hurl you down the stairs uncaring of the number of broken bones which would result.  Instead, I’m accepting a cuppa from your hands, which I know will be perfect because you always make my tea perfectly.  It really is deeply unfair of you, John.”

“So you’re hacked off at me because I make a perfect cup of tea. That’s...strangely _not_ strange.” John sipped at his tea for a moment, playing the conversation back in his head, trying to find the logical thread that always existed under the walkabout. “Cuddly.” The sheer absurdity of it left him shaking his head before turning to look at Sherlock again. " _Cuddly_?"

“Repeating it won’t make it untrue.  You’re appallingly cuddly.  Distractingly so.  Unnervingly so. Eighty-two percent of the time you look like you hug kittens for a living.”  Sherlock glared.  “At first, I thought you might actually have plotted it, but after thirty-seven-point-three seconds decided that was just silly.  It is merely your natural state.”

“Ookay.” It seemed wisest to just let the subject slide. Otherwise he’d spend the rest of the evening locked in a circular discussion that made no sense whatsoever. He contented himself with a couple of biscuits and let the silence settle.

Sherlock set the violin on the rug and sat up enough to take a tentative sip of his tea.  “Perfect.  I knew it would be.”  He hissed his displeasure.  “Well, there’s nothing for it.”  He sighed and settled back.  “Most truly unfair.  I’ll simply have to find some way to combat it.  Until I do, I must resign myself to being unable to remain miffed at you.”

“I’d apologize if I knew what the hell I was doing to irritate you.” Really, the man was enough to drive a person right off his chump. John let the mutter dip into his teacup. “Cuddly...”

“As a teddy bear.”  Sherlock grinned.  “Already you’ve worked your magic and I’m back in charity with you.”  The grin grew.  “And if you insist on repeating that all night, I'll warn you in about three more rounds I'm going to have to kiss you just to get it out of my system.”

Thank God for milk. Otherwise, the tea inhaled and subsequently discharged through his nasal passages would have burned a lot more. “ _What??_ ”

"Don't worry, it wouldn't go any further than that. I usually have amazing self-control.” Sherlock folded his hands behind his head.  “But you really are just too damned cuddly for your own—or my, for that matter—good."  

“That bad? Really?” John grabbed the jumper he’d left on the nearby chair to mop up the worst of the mess. _Hope those weren’t important papers strewn on the coffee table._

"I didn't say it was a _bad_ thing, John. Do try to keep up."  Sherlock’s eyes warmed from grey to a near blue.  “I find it...endearing.  Which is no doubt part of the cuddle factor.  Still...”  He settled into a pose of thoughtful consideration, hands folded as if in prayer, fingers barely touching his full lips, gaze unfocused.  “Yes...quite.  A very necessary part of the equation.”

“The equation that ends in you having to kiss me to...get it out of your system.” John wasn’t sure whether to be insulted, interested, or very, very afraid. All three emotions quite likely showed up on his face as his blood tried to simultaneously pool in and drain from his cerebellum.

"And don’t look at me like that or I really will have to kiss you.  The cuddle factor is increasing."

So was the warmth in Sherlock’s eyes.  Not Good.  Very Not Good.  Words like _kiss_ and _cuddle_ should not fall so easily from Sherlock’s mouth, shouldn’t sound so smooth and round and full in his voice.  

“It’s fast approaching irresistible.”

 _Okay, fear’s good..._ Or maybe he should just assume he’d fallen asleep and this was simply his subconscious on a tour of the Twilight Zone. _Oh, what the hell. It’ll get me out of this conversation if nothing else._ John set down his teacup and faced the nemesis of his theta-waves. “Well...if it's that bad...but just a kiss, okay? Three seconds, five if you must. Then I'm going upstairs and locking my door. In the morning I'll wake up and find this entire conversation was just an ale-induced dream.”

"I fear now you’ve added a...a...” Sherlock looked as though he might break down or possibly retch.  "Oh, God help me, a hug to the equation now. A certain need to offer comfort appears to have become embedded in my psyche and I can’t dislodge it. Really, John! Did you have to do that?” Honestly, Sherlock looked as if he might weep.

John blinked. "You're completely mental; you know that."

"I wasn’t until you moved in. Now I fear I’ve gone completely ‘round the twist."

The sight of the world’s only consulting detective clutching the sides of his own head and groaning in utter melodrama just topped off the surreal evening and John found himself laughing until he was breathless, the same soul-filling giggle his flatmate had induced the very first night they’d shared this space. _God, my life is fantastic...barmy as hell, but fantastic..._

“You’re...amazing.  Cuddly and amazing.”  Pale blue framed by riotous dark curls filled John’s vision.  “I did warn you.”  Soft lips brushed his.  Nothing more.  Just the gentlest touch for a handful of seconds.  “And I really should go to bed now.  Goodnight, John.”

John sat for a long while in the dark silence of the flat before he went upstairs.


	3. Long Day into Night

The day had not gone well. Twenty appointments with almost no break, topped off by a seven-year-old who’d freaked out at a simple vaccination by both biting John’s hand and kicking _very_ close to a tender spot. He was going to have a hell of a bruise.

Clubbing with Sherlock had sounded a lot better at breakfast. Now John felt far more like burying himself on the sofa with telly and a take-away. And possibly an ice pack.

The grin on Sherlock’s face didn’t improve John’s mood at all.  “Good, you’re finally home.  You have just time to eat a bit before you shower and dress.  I know you’re useless if you don’t eat something and I don’t want you complaining all night about it.  I had Mrs. Hudson make you a sandwich.”

“Gee, thanks.” John glanced around the living room. “What on earth are you researching now? Latest fashion trends?” He shrugged off his jacket and laid it over a chair, wincing a bit as he stepped wrong. “I dunno as I’m up to clubbing tonight, Sherlock. It was a hell of a day.”

“Then getting out is exactly what you need.”  Sherlock tilted his head.  “You really shouldn’t let children kick you in the groin, John.”  He swept a jar from the microwave and set a cup inside it.  “Think of how it could impact your love life.”  

“How...never mind. I’m too tired to ask.” He did check his jeans for telltale footprints, though, before sinking into a chair in front of the sandwich. “And it wasn’t my idea. The little nit freaked on a jab.”

“It has been my experience that children dislike needles.”  Sherlock swept the mug from the microwave and set the warm fragrant tea before John.  “Perhaps you should wear protective equipment.”  He settled in his chair across the table.  “You’ll feel less testy after you’ve eaten and had some tea.  Tea generally seems to improve your mood.  And that’s just the way you like it.”

John eyed his flatmate warily. “Wait a sec. You’re being...nice. Normal nice. Aware-of-people-around-you nice. What’s going on?” He had to admit, just sitting here bantering with Sherlock eased some of the day’s tension.

“I am normally nice to _you_ , John.  You’ve often remarked on it.  You don’t annoy and bore me.  You make me tea and meals.  You amuse me.  You are my only friend.”  Sherlock’s look clearly said John was a great idiot.  “You really are in an appallingly bad mood tonight.”

It took several blinks to process that much sincere honesty all in one shot. Then John sighed and reached for his tea. “Yeah, I guess I am. It was back-to-back patients and then the kid and just a very long day. I’m sorry for taking it out on you.” He took a sip and raised a brow. “That is just the way I like it. Thank you.”

“It doesn’t take my observational skills to figure out how you like your tea, John.”  The _idiot_ title was there again.  “Nor does it take a genius to produce a decent cuppa.”  Sherlock stretched.  “It would have been entirely boring today if I hadn’t had our outing’s preparations.  They kept me from complete ennui.  Your new clothes are hung in the bathroom, by the way.”

“My what?” A quick glance toward the bathroom out of pure reflex. “You went shopping...for me? I’ve got stuff that works for clubbing. Where are you taking me that I need a whole new wardrobe?”

“You have attire that works for pubs.  You have nothing that works for clubbing.  There’s a place that will be perfect for tonight.  Lestrade and I used to go there.  Well, still do occasionally.  Just not as often.”

“You...club with Lestrade?” A half-dozen visuals flashed through John’s tired brain, a couple of them truly scary and surreal. He tried to shake them off with a bite of sandwich and another sip of tea.

“He’s surprisingly good at it.  Apparently it requires less brains and more beauty and...well, sexual attractiveness.  I discovered Lestrade has a great deal of both on an early undercover.  As well as some very interesting and strategically-placed tattoos.”

The sudden and highly bizarre image of the detective inspector pole-dancing in a bikini and a pair of chaps—which had nothing to do with actual clubbing but showed up anyway—plastered itself onto the back of John’s brain and refused to be shook off. “I think I’m not going to ask.”  He got up and went to look in the loo just to have an excuse to move for a minute and hopefully shake the image, despite the fact his thigh ached. What he saw hanging there just brought a new pain to the left side of his head as well. _Good God_. “That’s...disco. Bad disco. Very verybad disco. I’m not wearing beige sequins.”

Sherlock with angelic innocence pasted on his face always meant trouble.  “You’d look good in it.”

“No. Just...no.” He moved back to the kitchen and sank into the chair. He was going to need a pain reliever with his tea very shortly. “Sherlock, I really...”

“I suspected you’d refuse.  I bought a backup.  Still, you could pull off the sequins.  It’s the cuddle factor.”  A somewhat mocking smile appeared.  “I know of few who could.  I bought it in my size nonetheless.  I’ll use it for future disguises.”

John felt a glare and a grin start at the same time. “You were just winding me up, then. You are such a brat.”

“Finish eating and get ready.  I wish to prove I can seduce anyone I choose.”  Sherlock stood and sauntered toward his bedroom.  “Lestrade learned his lesson.  It is time you learned as well.”

****

* * *

* * *

 

Okay, this was better. Not all that different from his apparent “pub wear.” John quirked a brow at Sherlock. The sandwich and the tea had helped, along with a couple of Paracetamol. “I already have a brown jacket, remember? Why’d I need a new one?”

“You don’t have a brown jacket that fits like this one.”  Sherlock smoothed the nape of the deep chocolate coat.  “This is much better.  It’s all about display, John.  Flaunting what you have.”  

John couldn’t argue.  There was no doubt Sherlock was a master at flaunting his own beauty.  Didn’t hurt he had so damned much of it.  Every shirt the man owned wanted to come undone, all his pants clung like a lover’s touch, and that damned coat should be arrested for public displays of indecent affection.  It was all just bloody wrong and looked so bloody good.

Sherlock adjusted the tiny knot of John’s thin tie.  “You look brilliant.”

“Brilliant. Not cuddly?” It was too much temptation not to return the winding-up. And if he was baiting Sherlock, he could ignore the odd twist, low in his gut, at the silver gaze resting on him with an affection he usually saw only in flashes.

“Oh, the cuddly is still there.  A bit hidden.  But when you look up at me like that, it all comes out.”  Sherlock tugged at John’s collar just a bit, the edges of his fingers brushing John’s skin.  “You can’t conceal the cuddly.  It’s always there. And too appealing for tonight.”

So easy and comfortable to just let the banter flow along. “Appealing? To you, or to anyone in this club you've chosen?”

“Both.”  The grin carried far too much satisfaction.  “Are you flirting with me, Doctor?”

That odd twist jolted a bit. “Uh...not intentionally. Or I don’t think so.” Was he?

“If you were, it wasn’t a bad effort.”  Sherlock stepped back with a final brush of John’s lapel.  “Give me five minutes and we’ll be off.”  Without another word, Sherlock whirled and vanished out the door and down the stairs to his room.

John glanced at the glass hanging over his dresser. It wasn’t a bad look at all, he decided. The deep blue pants and the striped shirt in complimentary shades seemed to add a bit of height and further streamlined his military physique, as did the fitted lines of the jacket. He’d never worn a silk shirt before. It felt cool and sleek against his skin, like a caress. The tie added a touch of sheen. Classy. Five minutes in the loo for a comb and a splash of aftershave and he’d meet Sherlock right at the door.

He nearly dropped the comb when a soft voice eased over his ear.

“Don’t do the aftershave tonight. Please.”

John smoothed the damn cowlick back into place again. “Why not? You don’t like it?  You’ve never complained before.” He grinned to himself. “Or is it not proper for this place?”

“I...It’s fine. Just...not tonight.”  Sherlock sounded almost embarrassed.  “You don’t really need to worry too much.  You look great and this is all about me proving a point about me in any case.  I don't need distractions."

John smiled at Sherlock’s reflection in the mirror. "I'm a distraction now, am I?" The words slipped past his tongue before he really thought about it.

 _Shit._  Sherlock’s grin should be listed as immoral, illegal, and a public danger.  The baritone dropped half a register.  So should his voice.  "Oh, you can be very distracting."

John turned, shaking his head as he did so. “I cannot believe I'm...I am, I’m actually standing here, _flirting_ with you. It’s completely—” More would have followed no doubt, but John found himself staring, jaw nearly on the floor, at black designer jeans so tight they should be outlawed, topped by an equally black shirt with the same subtle sheen as John’s tie, two buttons undone and the rest strained across Sherlock’s chest. The contrast of pale and dark was...incredible. “Wow.” _Shit, that wasn’t supposed to come out._

“I did tell you I have some experience with the club scene.  That includes enticing attire.”  Okay, that grin was just predatory.  “I’m very good at enticing.  Which is, of course, the whole point of this evening’s jaunt.”  Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, mussing it in all the best ways.  “Ready to watch me work?”  The voice stayed in that dangerous range and the buttons on the shirt threatened to give way with each breath.  Good lord.

A new scene with that damn dance pole plastered itself to the back of John’s retinas. He had to swallow once so his voice didn’t crack like a bloody schoolboy’s. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

Mercury eyes raked over him.  “Yes.  Almost.”  Sherlock stalked to the living room to fetch his coat, lean but defined muscle visible under the silk shirt, each movement outlined under black denim.  John’s breath hitched when Sherlock bent to pick up the coat from the floor.

Laser-bright eyes seared John's form as Sherlock stood and turned.  “I think you need one more thing before we leave.”

“You’re not piercing my ear.” He grinned at the glare that earned him. “Okay, so what am I missing?”

“This.”  Silver eyes filled John’s vision an instant before lean fingers grasped his face and warm lips met his.  Surprisingly tender, Sherlock ghosted his tongue over John’s lips, asking entrance.

 _Sweet Bloody God Above!_ The twist in his gut melted into a flock of butterflies over molten lava. His mouth opened on a gasp, a shiver working its way up his spine.

Gentle, oh so very gentle!  Sherlock explored every centimeter of John’s mouth, each tooth, every tiny space between, his gums, his tongue—dear God! John thought he might just die while that went on—all of it with Sherlockian intensity and precision.  John doubted anyone had ever been kissed so thoroughly ever in the history of the world.  When Sherlock finally drew back, he straightened John’s tie again.  “Now, I think we’re ready to go.”

“That...what...that...” The room wouldn’t focus for a good ten seconds. John grabbed for the first solid thing he could find, which happened to be Sherlock’s arm. “Sher...what...what was that...for?”

“Well, the bet is I can seduce anyone I want tonight, yes?  You should be aware what the stakes really are, John.”  The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitched.  “ _That_ is part of the arsenal I’ll use.  And it’s part of what the object of my hunt will experience.”  His gaze went distant, settling somewhere over John’s left shoulder, his voice going contemplative and almost dreamy.  “Lestrade says my mouth is particularly good and might be my most talented feature.  He should know.  His is quite exceptional.”

“I’m glad we haven’t laid actual money on this.” He would not, _not_ focus on an image of Sherlock in a similar kiss with Greg Lestrade; he just wouldn’t. Because for some reason that image made his brain send out memos to lock up his spine and tie a knot the size of bloody Texas in his stomach. “L-let’s go.”


	4. The Club

Sherlock’s idea of a non-nausea-inducing club was...pretty much what John had figured. Only not nearly as macabre. Yeah, there were the expected Goth and punk youth with their black lips and piercings, but there was enough of a spectrum overall that he could feel like he might not stand out like a Yank in Piccadilly. Of course, he might never hear anything softer than a jet plane ever again...

He was still working out whether it made him happy or not Sherlock was obviously known here.  Skipping the rather daunting line outside had been nice, if a tad surreal.  Of course, John had gotten used to surreal since moving in with Sherlock.  Surreal was pretty much normal now.  So observing the huge line to get in, the equally huge bouncer guarding the door, and then just waltzing past it all with no more than a “He’s with me” from Sherlock wasn’t all that shocking.  Just...exciting.  

So was watching Sherlock evict a couple of people from the bar so he could take their seats.  John hadn’t been able to catch whatever lie his flatmate spun, but it worked like a charm.  Sherlock grinned, signalled the bartender for drinks, and leaned in close.  “I’ll put my coat over your chair back.  No one will take it.  Jeremy will see to that.”  He nodded to the bodybuilder masquerading as a bartender.  “You won’t have to worry about a place to sit.”

“Not at all.” Jeremy smiled as he brought their drinks over. “Been awhile, Sherlock. You haven’t been slumming over at _Thelonius_ , have you?”

“Boring.”  Sherlock had to lean close, his lips touching John’s ear, so he could be heard.  “Ready to start the game?  Shall we dance and see what’s on the menu tonight?”

“You want to dance with me?” Not that the thought repulsed him, but he wasn’t completely sure the music was danceable beyond basic calisthenics. “I thought you were...trolling.”

“Well, I have to see what prey is out there, don’t I?  See what I attract.  Besides, you don’t believe I can be alluring.  I want you to see how they come to me, not how I go to them.  So dance with me, John.  See how much they want me.”  Sherlock closed long fingers around John’s wrist and pulled him onto the dance floor.

“I never said you weren’t...” _Okay. Not really so different from that club we went to in Kabul. What was her name...Fila, that’s right. She said I had to let the music find me, not the other way ‘round._ No problem with the music finding him; it vibrated through every bone in his body and half the soft tissue. The actual beat finding him, though, might take a bit of listening. John let his eyes drift closed for a minute.

As the rhythm settled in, he found the moves he wanted.  Not with the ease some people had, an almost instinctual response he just didn’t feel, but he could enjoy moving in tempo with the beat once he found it.  He opened his eyes to smile at Sherlock and gasped.

 _Bloody screaming Jesus._ Instinct in bloody spades and then some.

John knew Sherlock’s physical side.  He’d rushed through most of London with the man, after all.  Dashed up stairs, damned near ran up the sides of buildings.  But this... The shiver started in John’s toes and worked all the way up to the roots of his hair.  

Sherlock, head thrown back, long neck exposed and just begging for someone to ravish it with teeth and tongue and hard suction, gyrated in ways that had to be illegal.  Bleeding hell, he could pay the rent for a year just for a night of _that_.  When Sherlock spread his hand on his belly and undulated, John’s knees went weak.  

 _Asexual, my arse._  Donovan would wet her knickers if she saw that.  Come to think of it, so might Anderson.  That ugly thought allowed John to stay on his feet—barely—when Sherlock slid his hand up the black silk shirt and over his chest.  Masturbation disguised as dancing never looked so good.  Lord.  

“Come here, sweetie, before you get trod on.”

A female voice sort of pulled him out of his trance and he realized he’d been standing there gawking like a complete idiot. Heat rushed to his face, but the girl just smiled and settled her arms around his neck. “He does that to all of us. We can stay nearby. He doesn’t care; I think the whole world goes away for him when he’s dancing. I’m Blossom.”

“H-hi, Blossom.  I’m John.”  At least that came out mostly coherent.  “Yeah, I recognize the look on his face.”   _Just not the body...motions.  Christ._  “He gets like this when he’s into something.  Cases, experiments, crap telly.  Annoying me.”

“Are you guys together?” Her smile didn’t dim at all. “He’s never come in with someone before. Always by himself.”

“Flatmates.”   _Who kiss._  John still had no clue what the flaming hell that was about.  “We work together, too.”  Not going to get into that much.  No telling when Sherlock might need to be undercover here again.  “He’s... something else.”

“You’re not so bad yourself. I have to work to figure out the right moves on the dance floor, too.” Her smile went impish and rather pretty. “At least this way we’ve both got company, huh? And you can still keep an eye on him.”

“Me and everyone else, looks like.”  John had taken the chance to glance around.  Not surprisingly, Sherlock had an audience.  And why shouldn’t he?  Especially when he slipped one hand on the inside of his knee and drew it up his leg.  John cursed to himself.

 _Good God._ Pale eyes opened and surveyed the crowd like a big cat looking for lunch, a physical sensation reaching out to rake over the souls of the people gathered around. John felt it grab him as well, suck him into dark promises of exquisite sensuality. He could have sworn he heard a low, rumbling growl, though it must simply have been a part of the music.

John knew just how some small, insignificant, and rather frightened jungle creature felt when the attentions a famished jaguar fell upon its tiny frame.   _God, why me?_ Sherlock’s hips swiveled and John blessed the decibel level of the music.  It covered the squeak that escaped his lips.  Former RAMC, decorated officers did not squeak in public.  Even under the greatest of pressure.  John swallowed, throat dry as it had ever been in Afghanistan.  This was about as great as pressure came.

The tempo of the music changed, harder, slower,...sexier.  John cursed aloud and rethought his analysis of pressure levels.  Whatever he thought before was wrong.  Sherlock was only just now hitting his groove.  John was so dead.

And the predator...blinked.

John watched a battle take place behind those cool eyes, a struggle to emerge from the jungle to reality. He watched pale hands tremor just a bit against the midnight shirt, a tightening of muscles that had been so fluid only seconds before. Sherlock stared at him for the longest moment, chest heaving with exertion, lips parted slightly. Then it all vanished and his flatmate stepped closer to be heard. “You’re distracting, John.  Far too distracting.  Go sit at the bar and have a drink.”

“ _I’m_ distracting?” John took the smile at face value—that knowing, self-satisfied smirk he knew too well. And the expression that followed, the raised eyebrows over a faintly pleading half-pout. “All right, all right. Come on, Blossom, I’ll buy you a drink and let the master here work his crowd.” He grinned as the pout turned into a mock-glare.

Blossom laughed as they settled at the bar and John got her a drink. “I can tell you’re his friend. No one else could talk to him like that and survive the Arctic onslaught afterward.”

“You seem to have stood up to him fairly well so far.  I’ve seem him slay grown men with an eyebrow alone.”  John sipped whatever Jeremy had delivered.  Seemed regardless of what John ordered for himself, Sherlock’s previous order took precedence.  Not too bloody surprising, that.  “So, you’ve seen him do this a lot?”  He wanted to know and yet dreaded it.  Christ alone knew what Sherlock might have done on his own.  Or with Lestrade.   _Jesus._  John couldn’t even imagine.  Or rather he could, and that was the problem.

She nodded. “He used to come in once, twice a week. Get lost in the music for hours and sometimes walk out with someone under his wing. Guy, girl...mostly guys.” She grinned up as Jeremy came over to clear Sherlock’s untouched drink and set a fresh one in its place. “Couple of times I think he stayed until closing just to wait for Jeremy.”

Okay, that visual was...not as troubling as it probably should have been.  John pushed it away and concentrated on Sherlock.  “I think I’m about to lose a bet.”

“Distractions.” Either Jeremy had learned to modulate his voice just right to be heard over—or maybe through—the music, or he’d lost most of his hearing working in here and simply shouted everything. “Any of us, all of us. Just distractions from whatever demons he’s got inside his head.”

John knew about those.  He and Sherlock both had their demons and worked together to banish as many as they could.  John grinned at the limp which no longer existed.  They’d managed to slay quite a few for each other.  “A bit more than distractions sometimes.”

Jeremy shook his head and there was no bright smile this time. “No. Just distractions.” Then the grin went white and very amused as it settled on John. “Now tonight...I think maybe he’s found that bit more.”

Blossom laughed and shouted over the thumping music.  “He’s been gone too long.  The new crowd hasn’t been exposed.  They actually think they might have a real chance with him, poor sods.”  She shook her head.  “Jeremy’s right.  At best, we’re nothing but diversions for him.  A distraction for a little while.”  She downed her drink.  “Cheers, mate.  You get to live with all that ice.  Don’t see how you do it.”  

“Sometimes I wonder that myself.” John tossed back the last of his drink and stared into the empty glass for a moment, wondering why the hell the thought of turning around to watch Sherlock in a bump-and-grind with an anonymous partner made him want to put his fist through a wall. _You started this, John. You’re the one who brought it up in the first place. The least you owe him is to follow through and admit you were wrong._ He motioned Jeremy for a refill and leaned over to Blossom. “You want another?”

“Sure, why not.  Goes well with the floor show.  God, it never fails to amaze.  They flock to him.  Not a clue, any of them.  But then, none of us did, in the beginning.”  She shook her head.  “And he’s hot tonight, hotter than I’ve ever seen him burn.  God.”

Jeremy just smiled and moved down to tend the other end of the bar.

John took one more sip of courage and decided it was time to be the friend Sherlock always said he was. He swallowed the urge to punch something again and swung around so he could see the dance floor.

 _Merciful God_. His gut clenched low and tight.

No mortal man could move like that, _should_ move like that.  Creatures other than—more than—man possessed that sort of grace and sensuality.  Angels, demons, demigods...ancient unnamed deities, silver-eyed, terrifying and glorious, who set blood burning in a man’s veins, the breath roaring in his lungs, and his heart, oh God, his heart...   _Sherlock, what have you done to me?_

“Panther in a neon jungle.” Jeremy’s voice washed over him from behind. “That’s how I always think of him. I don’t think he’s going to find a distraction tonight. He doesn’t need one.”

“Oh, he’ll find one.”  John managed to grate the words out.  Some poor SOB would win Sherlock’s bet for him.  He’d have the night of his life, the lucky bastard, and then he’d never hear from Sherlock again.  Still, he’d have a night to remember.  John lifted his drink in a toast.  “Here’s to you, whoever you’re going to be, you bleeding lucky prick.”  Not nice.  At all.  And John didn’t really care at the moment.

****

* * *

* * *

 

“You either been dumped bad, baby, or you’re getting ready to dump them.”

A new voice replaced Blossom's at his side. John figured she’d given up on him two drinks back. He hadn’t really been paying much attention.

This voice was male, a higher, musical tone that was pleasant enough. Slim hands decorated with a couple of carved Celtic rings moved into his peripheral vision. “Why’nt you come let me make you forget all of it?”

“Thanks, but I’m fine right here. Away from the bloody floor show.” He took a sip of the next glass Jeremy had set in front of him and grimaced. “That’s water.”

“You need a break.” The set of the bartender’s jaw told John arguing wasn’t a good thing.

 _Probably part of the babysitting routine Sherlock’s got him doing on me._ “Fine.” He tossed it back and glowered at the wood inlay of the bar.

“Look, mate, I’ve known your boyfriend for seven years now.  If there’s anyone can wind a man up, he can.”  Jeremy refilled the water glass.  “Just let it go.  I mean, you have him after all.  That’s something no one else has managed.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” And that fact had never burned his gut the way it did now. “And I’m sick of watching him.” He turned and managed a smile. Hell, if Sherlock could get into his gut, why not another guy? “What’s your name, then?”

“Kenyon.” The man—good lord, little more than a college boy—sitting next to him patted his hand. “Come on. We’ll go ‘round the back of the crowd where you won’t see him. You can get all that whatever out of your head for awhile.”

Yeah, that would be good.  Probably very good, in fact.  God, why had John ever agreed to this insanity?  Sitting here, waiting, watching while Sherlock seduced half the damn bar, just deciding which one he wanted to take home.  John swallowed back sudden nausea.  Home.  Their home.  He cursed in strangled silence and followed Kenyon away from the sight of Sherlock’s beauty writhing on the dance floor.

The combination of too much liquor and too many irate thoughts interfered with his being able to let the music or anything else find him. John tried for an apologetic smile at the young man. “I’m not much of a dancer.”

“That’s okay.”   _Broad accent.  Canadian._ John liked the cadence of it.  “You make up for it.”  The blinding smile was all for John.  “Like my cousin in Texas says, you’re cute as a bug.”

 _At least he didn’t say cuddly._ John could deal with cute. It was the moniker he usually got from various women. And Kenyon was attractive enough, all dark curls and big brown eyes and curves in his face where Sherlock was all sharp angles. He didn’t really make John’s stomach clench, but it was nice to feel wanted in some way. “Maybe you could...help me find some sense of rhythm to all this?”

The smile lit up like the West End.  “Love to.”  The pretty Canadian stepped in close, fingers threading through John’s belt loops.  His easy touch guided John into a smoother rhythm.  Their hips moved in sync.  “Now this is nice.”

“Yeah.” It was nice, not feeling like a bull in a ballroom. John let the music and the gentle guidance wash over him, let the alcohol buoy his mind away from thinking about Sherlock and some...person.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 _Damn it all to bloody fucking hell._ No matter he was way in back of the crowd and couldn’t see anything but Kenyon. He could picture Sherlock in his mind’s eye, knew exactly what that limber form would be doing for the crowd. Picture anonymous hands sliding over Sherlock’s arms, tracing the curve of his throat, possibly reaching for more and being slapped away for their efforts. Pure tease. Pure fucking peepshow. Until Sherlock picked out his dessert.

John cursed the moment of insanity that let him agree to this bet.  Barking mad.  The vision of white hands sliding over lean thighs filled his inner eye, blocking out everything else.  Bloody raving lunatics, both he and the madman he lived with.  John dealt with it the best he could; he moved closer to his dance partner.  He fought the urge to giggle as the lyrics of an old song fought with the techno pumping around him: _And if you can't be with the one you love, honey / Love the one you're with._  Close enough.

“Hey.” Kenyon’s voice washed over his ear. “You okay?” The fingers still tucked into John’s belt loops tightened against the small of his back, pulling him a little closer still. “God, you smell good.”

John let the Canadian draw him nearer yet.  “Thanks.”  He tilted his head.  Let the other man get a good whiff.  At this point, John needed the distraction.  All he could think of was Sherlock, perspiration glistening on alabaster skin as he gyrated under the neon and flash of the clubs lights.  The detective would smell of sandalwood, sweat, and...Sherlock.   _God damn it!_  John pulled Kenyon hard to him.

“Mm, I like this. Damn, you’re just sweet hot sugar, aren’t you?”  Eager lips traced the curve of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, Kenyon’s hips working against him. “I get it, baby. I do. You want him and he’s not interested. It’s okay. I can be whatever you want tonight.” Dark liquid eyes met his. “Anything you need.”

Might as well.  Sherlock had plans; John might as well make his own.  “You’re doing just fine.”  A hand on the young man’s hip didn’t spark much, but it beat the cold of a whiskey glass.  “Yeah, just fine.”

“Oh, I can do better than fine.” Slim fingers loosened his tie, unbuttoned the top of his shirt collar. “What’s your name? We never got around to that part.” Kenyon leaned close and blew a warm breath over John’s ear. “Or we can just keep things anonymous if you’d rather. Wouldn’t be the first time, and I like the mystery.”

“Pity you’re rubbish at solving them.”  The deep baritone sliced the music with ease.   _Of course.  Why should something as mundane as amplified speakers inconvenience Sherlock Bloody Holmes?_  Cold eyes drilled into Kenyon.  “Go away.”

John kept his grip on the young man’s waist. “He’s not bothering me. We’re dancing. You’re busy, remember?”

Sherlock, imperious as ever, ignored him and focused on Kenyon.  “I said go away.  Now.”  Ice floes would have been warmer than his tone.

Kenyon’s eyes went wide as he eased John’s hands away. “It’s okay, man. You need a chat, that’s cool.” He glanced at John. “I’ll be over at the bar when you’re done, if you’re still interested.”

“He won’t be.”  Sherlock followed Kenyon’s retreat for a few moments before turning to John.  “Your taste is...acceptable.  He’s handsome. He does not suit your morals, however, Doctor.  He’s moderately wealthy, involved in a long-term relationship with a female lawyer.  She is not aware of his fondness for these excursions.”

 _Bloody hell_. John glared up at his flatmate, anger and intoxication making the glare from the lights hurt his eyes. “Didn’t ask for your analysis. You already won your bet. Go find your damn...trinket and leave me alone.” He took a step back toward the bar.

“I don’t want a trinket.  I want a jewel.”  Sherlock paced beside John, lean pale hand seizing John’s wrist.  “This way.  I’ve made my choice.”

“Then what the hell do you need me along for?” How the hell did a man so slim and lithe get a grip like a bloody vise? John tried to tug away but it was no use. “I’m not going to watch.”

“John.”  Long and drawn out and of significance.  “Do try to keep up.  I believe you’ll enjoy watching.  A great deal.”

They passed right by the bar, barely stopping long enough for Sherlock to grab his coat and glare at Kenyon again. Jeremy just waved. “Don’t be a stranger just because it’s two of you now! You’re good for business!”

Sherlock answered with a look.  John wasn’t sure exactly what it said, but Jeremy laughed.  The fingers around his wrist tightened. “Come, John.  I’m bored now.”

As they stepped out onto the street and Sherlock moved to hail a cab, John managed to extricate his hand. He looked around at the various people milling about. “So? Where’s this jewel? You said you’d made your choice.”

“I have.”  The Sherlockian magic for finding a cab regardless of weather or hour held true and a black auto pulled up.  “Everything is waiting for us at home.”

 _Great. Just great. Had to invite them home and then drag me along. Just bloody fucking great._ The alcohol in his stomach threatened to burn a hole right through, despite the watering-down. John leaned his head against the cool window of the cab and willed it all to just be a nightmare. And to wake up soon.

 


	5. Panther's Eye

John flipped on the light as they came into the flat, only to have Sherlock turn it off again. “What’d you do that for? Your company’s coming soon enough, aren’t they?” Okay, either too much to drink or not enough, judging by the level of bitter he heard in his own voice.

“They’re here.  The lights aren’t needed.”  Sherlock stripped off that damned coat and scarf of his.  John barely restrained the urge to curse the air blue.  “My room, John, if you please.”  

The urge grew. _The hell I will._ A swift change of subject was in order. Time to try stroking the great ego. John paced over to the window, the opposite direction of Sherlock’s order. “Full moon. Makes the flat look halfway like the club. Lot quieter, though.” He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and leaned his shoulder against the sill. “The DJ...he changed music just for you, didn’t he? Slower, more...sensual. He likes the way you move.” _So do I, but I’m bloody well not telling you that._

“The DJ’s been stalking me for years.  Not actively.  Only in the club, so I ignore it.”  Sherlock’s smile turned so predatory it should have fangs.  “Actually, I encourage it.  He plays whatever I like.”  The detective strode toward John, dropping his iPod in the base on the way.  Music filled the flat.

John blinked. “That’s...that’s the song. The one before you told me to get out of your sight because I was a distraction.” He looked up into Sherlock’s gaze, the detective standing so close his pale eyes became companion moons to the one outside, and suddenly the flat seemed a lot smaller.

And warmer. Much warmer. The expletives flowed through John’s mind at breakneck pace.

“You were.  Far too distracting.”  Sherlock’s deep tones rang through John’s bones.  “I couldn’t concentrate at all.”  Narrow hips began to move in time with the music and Sherlock’s head tipped back.  “I could feel your eyes on me.  Following my every move.”  Pale fingers fluttered over his chest and down his thighs.  “Utterly distracting.”

_As if I could have done anything else._ As if he could do anything else now, with no one to pull him aside. The rhythm of the song pulsed into his bones, the lyrics caressing his brain. John hadn’t listened before, not really.

_“How can you see into my eyes like open doors / Leading you down into my core where I’ve become so numb...”_

Dear God. Exactly what Sherlock had done to him. Found his soul when John had thought it lost and frozen. Curses gave way to a great wide knot just under his sternum, making breathing a labored chore. _God, no. I can’t have..._

Those impossible eyes opened, staring at John, seeing everything, just like always.  “Do you understand now that I can have anyone I want?”

“Yeah. I get it.” His gut twisted low and painful at the thought of one of the nameless clubbers waiting in the entry below or, God forbid, in Sherlock’s bed right now. “Sorry I gave you shite about it, okay?”

“No, no.  It was a point that needed to be proven.  I quite enjoyed the experiment.”  Sherlock’s long frame swayed in sensuous abandon.  “I look forward to the next stage.”  A lean thigh brushed against John’s hip.

“So who’d you end up choosing? Jeremy? Someone new?” He tried to ignore the words washing over them in the dark and the moonlight.

_“Wake me up inside, call my name and save me from the dark. / Bid my blood to run...”_

Exactly what had happened. Sherlock, saving him from the silence and the nothingness that had become John’s life, freeing him from the cage and bidding him to run again. _Making_ him run. Demanding nothing less than the best John could offer. Because he saw what John had been, what he could be.

_“Bring me to life...”_

Now the thought of someone else waiting made John ill. He had to blink back wetness at the corner of his eyes. He’d spent so much time establishing to both Sherlock and the world at large that he wasn’t interested in men, that they weren’t a couple, that only friendship existed between them. And now he knew he wanted more. Needed so very much more. He wouldn’t be complete with anyone else.

“Don’t be obtuse.”  Sherlock stepped closer, not that the concept of personal space had ever really worked where he was concerned.  “Think, John.  You’re brighter than most of the morons out there.  Who did I bring home?”  The feel of him moving against John sent tremors through every muscle.  

_You didn’t bring anyone home. We came home together, just us, just you and--oh._ John’s voice closed up to a rather embarrassing croak and his heart took a terribly risky leap in his chest. “You...you mean...” He had to stop and clear the revelation from his throat, praying he was hearing right. “You brought _me_ home?”

“I knew who I wanted long before I ever left for the club.  Before we began this game.”  Thin fingers threaded into John’s belt loops, pulling him closer to rhythmically circling hips.  “I’ve known for some time now who it is I want and need.  It’s simply been a matter of settling on the correct course of action.”

“You knew? But...” John’s mind wanted to trace back over their months together, to figure out if there had been any hint that Sherlock wasn’t really married to his work after all. That there had been some mutual...need. But his body decided he’d much rather enjoy the incredible, if unfamiliar, sensation of the man’s touch. He’d never even known his own soul, and Sherlock had still seen right to the core from the start.

“I knew.”  A pleased smile appeared. Fingers slipped from John’s belt loops, going about his waist instead.  “You said _astounding_ and _amazing_ instead of _piss off_.  You crossed London to text for me on just a few hours’ acquaintance and only complained a little.  You don’t accept Mycroft’s bribes. You badger me.  You make me tea.  I said _danger_ and you came.  And you _keep coming_.  And you don’t leave.  You stay.  Oh John!  You stay.  Through all the madness and the boredom and the thrills, you stay.  Of course, I knew!”  The smile dipped closer, finally easing from John’s view.  Then it touched his lips.  Soft, warm...lush.  So very what he wanted.

He didn’t gasp this time. Instead, he opened his mouth, himself, to Sherlock with full cognizance of what he was doing. The music segued into a mournful, sensual ballad and John fell into it, tasting and touching and discovering everything he hadn’t quite realized he’d wanted all along. Black silk made his fingertips blaze as they traced lean lines of muscle and skin. Sandalwood and sweat and _Sherlock_ filled his senses.

“Always stay, John.”  Sherlock’s deep voice begged an answer to his not-question.  Firm kisses teased John’s throat.  “We can be this way for the rest of our lives.”

“God, yes.” His pulse leapt up to meet Sherlock’s lips. “I’m not going anywhere, not ever. You...you breathe life into me. You brought me back to life.”

He got a growl in answer.  And suddenly frantic hands ripping his tie away, flying over the buttons on his shirt, parting them with ease, sweeping the blue silk from his shoulders.  “Much better.”  Sherlock’s mouth fastened on John’s shoulder, dizzying waves crashing through John.  

John’s fingers found the silky curls, the warm curve of Sherlock’s throat. He nipped at the satiny skin, wanting, needing to mark and claim and never let go. The moan his kisses engendered left him trembling. He leaned his cheek against Sherlock’s pulse and felt all the evening’s tension flow out on a sigh. “You said something about your room?”

"Yes.  Now would be excellent."  The need there pleased John tremendously. Long fingers wrapped his hand and Sherlock tugged John back toward the kitchen and the short hallway beyond, back toward Sherlock’s bedroom. A gaze bright as the full moon beckoned John to follow.

 


	6. Detour and Dance

Halfway past the refrigerator John suddenly gripped the smooth steel surface as the room tilted a bit. He caught the panic in Sherlock’s eyes and shook his head. “I’m okay, just...”

“Drunk.”  Long fingers wrapped John’s bicep.  “How many did you have?”  A touch of ire joined the concern, both not quite hidden beneath Sherlock’s habitual sangfroid.  “I thought Jeremy had better sense than to let you get sloshed.”

“He was the perfect nanny. I just...I was...” Hell. Explaining his unexpected jealousy was going to net him more smirks. “I was pissed off. At you. At all the nameless shadows watching you, t-touching...you. I finished off whatever Blossom was drinking after she left and before Jeremy got back to my end.”

“So one over your limit?  I suppose that’s acceptable.”  Sherlock shifted his grip to John’s elbow.  “Bedroom, John.  Either way, you need to lie down.”

“I’m not that drunk. I just...lost my balance a little.” He grinned at the wall. “Maybe it was the hormone rush.” He let himself lean against that slim strength, breathing in Sherlock’s scent. “I’ll just let you lead. I know you’ll take care of me.”

“And so I shall.”  Sherlock guided John past the threshold and into the detective’s bedroom.  “Which is why I think we should take this very slow and very easy.”  A warmth John knew no one else ever saw lit quicksilver eyes.  “I much prefer you remember this tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Hate to have to go through all the lead-up again, huh?” The low growl he got for his cheek just made him giggle in a way that should have been embarrassing, but Sherlock knew that about him, too. John reached up and fumbled a little as he unbuttoned the top—okay, the top one actually buttoned—of Sherlock’s shirt and pressed a kiss against milky skin. “Since when do you want slow? Usually you’re at light-speed.”

“I go slow when I...”  Sherlock frowned.  “John.  That’s very...distracting.  I’m trying to be considerate and think of you first.  You will be extremely vexed with me if I take advantage of you in an inebriated state.”

John sighed loudly. “All right. I’ll behave.” He plunked down onto the bed, leaning his cheek against the high bedpost, pulling up his best pout. “Better now...” He couldn’t hold it and the grin popped back out as he looked up at Sherlock. “...sir?”

“God.  I’ve a near-overpowering urge to shag you unconscious.”  Sherlock’s long fingers disordered his curls.  “However, I also have a great deal of willpower.  So I’m going to make you a cup of coffee, provide you with a pair of aspirin, and a great deal of water.  When you’ve had time to regain a bit of your equilibrium, _then_ I’ll shag you unconscious.”

A funny sort of shiver slid over John’s body; there must be a chill in here. “I’m okay. Really. You don’t have to—” He took in the piercing gaze Sherlock was giving him and the shiver went off again. “What?”

“Why the shiver, dear doctor?  What preys upon your mind now?”

“I dunno. It was just a shiver.” He got to his feet and reached for another button, frowning when Sherlock backed away a step. “Just c’mere, will you? You said you picked me out. You brought me home. So unwrap me already.”

“Oh, I picked you.  My only choice.”  Sherlock came no closer, though he took John’s hand and pressed a lingering kiss to the rather scarred knuckles.  “I want no other.  Only you, John.  But I want you aware and with all your faculties intact.”  He drew himself very erect.  “I don’t want you to regret this when you’re sober.”

“I won’t.” But he let Sherlock lead him back out to the kitchen, stopping at the loo for a quick call of nature before he sat down in one of the chairs flanking the table. “I won’t regret anything we do. I don’t regret the one other. And there was a lot less emotion involved.”

Sherlock paused, turning that laser-bright focus on John.  “I had wondered about that.”  Braced back against the counter, Sherlock seemed more out of place than usual in their little kitchen.  “Just how little experience have you had with men, John?  And I know it’s been little.”

John shrugged; no point in asking how Sherlock deduced it. If he felt like sharing, he would. “Very little. We had... When I was in country, I was stationed at a firebase way out in the middle of nowhere, maybe...thirty, forty miles from any kind of civilization. Couple of tiny villages, barely the basics for survival. We were pretty much on our own except for chopper and air support.” He toyed with one of the empty test tubes lying on the table, watching it catch the light. “I was the medical officer. Which pretty much meant I was surgeon, general pract, and full-time shrink to about a hundred soldiers, sometimes more. We had a handful of medics, but most of the time they were out on patrols with the guys. I went on patrols now and again myself. Not as much as I felt I should have.”

Sherlock nodded.  “I’ve familiarized myself with the situations and conditions you would have faced in Afghanistan.  I can envision the scenario.”

 _He cared enough to research it._ It left a warm feeling in John’s stomach which had nothing to do with an excess of alcohol. “We went through a rough spell for about five weeks. Lot of patrols hit, several attacks on the base itself. Injuries, kids out, kids in, a dozen deaths. Seems like a blur now.” He let out a soft breath of grim humor. “Seemed like a blur then. I...don’t remember much of the details. I just remember being up to my elbows in blood a lot. And hearing a lot of blokes tell me they were scared to death. I’m not sure I had time to feel my own fear.”

Sherlock moved to the table, his long form folding into the chair across from John.  “I sometimes think you always section your own fears off until the reason for them is long past.”

“Maybe.” The memory focused and came clearer into his mind as he stared at Sherlock’s elegant fingers hovering near his own. “Anyway, we had a couple of patients one night who weren’t stable enough to be evaced right away. So we kept them there at the base clinic. Not the ideal place, but it was bunkered and reinforced. One was an eighteen-year-old kid I’d spent three hours on, stitching up blood vessels so he didn’t drain like a leaky car. It was hot, and dusty, and I ran on adrenalin for thirty hours straight. One of the medics, the only one not out on a patrol, finally pointed me at a cot we had set up behind a couple of portable operating curtains and told me to sleep. He said he’d watch the monitors and let me know if there was an emergency.”

“Ah.”  Not really a word, more of a breathy sound.  “A comrade in arms then.  The medic?  A fellow soldier-healer?”

John dipped his head in acknowledgement. “I couldn’t sleep. I mean, they train us to be able to fall asleep within a minute or two, but my brain wouldn’t shut down, just raced with all the crap going on. All the crap I hadn’t had a chance to feel until I stopped moving. Carson came in a few minutes later and...made a suggestion. Said he could help me relax and sleep, if I wanted. Nothing weird, just basics, said I could even close my eyes and imagine any girl I wanted. But he said I needed to sleep and it would be better than trying to claw my way out of a medicated fog if there was trouble. I didn’t even stop to think about it. Because he was right.”

Lean fingers closed over his, Sherlock’s smile faint but warm.  “A little emergency therapy for the shrink.”

“Yep.” John watched those fingers brush over his knuckles, the sensation both comforting and sensual. “And for a little while, that’s what I did. Imagine the girl, I mean. Or tried to. He... It was an incredible feeling. I mean, not that I was new to having someone go down on me.” He laughed softly. “Hell, they called me ‘Triple C’ ‘cause I can claim female encounters on three continents.”

Amusement and something John couldn’t quite define sparked in Sherlock’s eyes.  “Triple C.  I rather like that.  It’s quite...butch.”

“Shut up.” John glared but couldn’t contain the grin. “Anyway...” His grin widened at Sherlock’s snort of laughter. “I found myself watching him. I mean, it’s not like I had some great bolt of realization or anything, but I wasn’t eeked out, either. God, it felt wonderful. I had to cram my fist into my mouth just to keep quiet. I don’t think...no. I haven’t ever come that hard before. I don’t know if it was just that he knew, being a guy, what felt best or what, but...”

“It could have been anything, John.  The tension of the situation, that he was male, his talent, anything.”  Sherlock leaned back in his chair.  “But it opened your mind.”

“Mm-hm. And I slept for a solid six hours afterward. Just dead to the world.” He set the test tube aside and considered his flatmate. “He got transferred not long after. Another part of his medical training. I lost track of him. Whatever...I never forgot it, but it just sort of got filed back in my head. Until...well, until tonight, I guess. Until you.”

One corner of those mobile, sculpted lips twitched.  “Until me.  We’ll have to see what sort of empirical data I can add to that pitiful store.  I can assure you, I have a far greater range of talent than a rather plebeian example of fellatio.”  The twitch blossomed into a Mephistophelian grin.  “You have a great deal of anticipation before you.”

“I didn’t mean I expected you to **—** ” Heat rushed to John’s cheeks. “No. I mean, I wasn’t comparing you to **—** ” _God, just give up, Watson._ He glanced over Sherlock’s shoulder and tried for a severe expression. “I thought you were making coffee.”

“So I was.”  Sherlock rose, a slow, sensual glide from sitting to standing.  Damn.  Did he have to make that sexy, too?  “Contemplate the joys awaiting you while I do so.”

At least Sherlock didn’t feel the need to make him blush further by pursuing the matter. John watched the detective move about the kitchen in swift, efficient form and had to smile. “You know, domesticity is a bit frightening on you.”

“I did survive for years alone before I met you.”  Sherlock set a pair of mugs on the table.   “I do have some talents of which you’ve remained unaware.  As tonight has proven.”

John nodded, the last of the embarrassment fading. “Yep. You’re not really human, you’re some reincarnation of an ancient demigod. Nobody mortal could possibly move like that. Absolutely bloody fucking gorgeous.”

With impossibly big eyes.  John grinned.   _Yeah, completely gorgeous._  

And never moreso than when gobsmacked changed to calculating. “Would you like to see more?”

“M-more? More what?” Damn it, maybe he was drunker than he’d thought. “I thought you were slowing us down and making coffee.”

A dark stream poured into John’s cup.  “Coffee made.  Drink.  I’ll show you how I slow things down.”

Sherlock moved to the sitting room, all lithe sway and long legs.  A slow throbbing beat filled the flat.

John had to consciously think about _not_ inhaling the coffee rather than drinking it. Though he wasn’t certain any of it made it past his lips; surely it must have vaporized on impact.  The dance at the club had been hot, sweltering even.  It was nothing compared to this.  The heavy, faintly Latin beat settled in John’s groin, pulsing in time with his heart.  And Sherlock’s hips.  Christ!  The floor show there had been nothing.  Silver eyes never left John’s face as white hands slid over Sherlock’s body, that obscenely beautiful mouth drifting open, inviting all sorts of liberties.

Agile fingers loosed the buttons John had started, baring a bit more pale skin. John swallowed another gulp of coffee liberally mixed with his own saliva. God, he wanted to taste that alabaster skin again.  Never more than when Sherlock traced the shadows of whipcord muscles with sensuous ease.  

The black shirt slid away, fluttering to the floor, taking John’s stomach with it.

 _Bugger the bloody coffee._ He left the cup on the table and closed the distance between them, not stopping when Sherlock stepped back, matching step for step until the fireplace blocked any further retreat. John got hold of a belt loop and pressed tight, trailing kisses across the expanse of warm skin.  A long gasp added heat to the volcano already rising inside John.  “God, you taste fantastic.”

Sherlock chuckled.  “Do you realize you do that out loud?”

“Yeah. And you love it.” John paused for a moment, letting his breath pool around one dark nipple on Sherlock’s chest. He grinned at the tremor it elicited. “Still got all that willpower?”

A grin of purest evil sat far too well on Sherlock’s face.  “Yes, I do.  Want me to finish dancing for you?”

“Only if you don’t banish me across the bloody flat again.” John leaned down enough to press a kiss against the sprinkling of crisp hair between Sherlock’s navel and the edge of his jeans. “Keep me close. Never know when I might need someone to lean on.”

Damn the man for laughing!  

John forgave him seconds later when lean hips rotated against John.   _Oh God, yeah!_

“Better?”

“Much.” The smug grin was expected and John returned it. “But you need a little room to move, I wager.” He claimed his red chair again, almost within reaching distance, looking up at all that beauty again and feeling his body tighten up most pleasantly. “Front-row. Can’t get a better seat.”

Sherlock just smirked, and found the perfect rhythm.  White hands slid over dark jeans, caressing his thighs.  John’s lungs labored as Sherlock’s hands eased down almost to his knees.  Oxygen turned searing when Sherlock threw his head back and brought those lean, pale hands up the inside of his own thighs in a move of near-masturbation.

John shifted in the chair, trying to find a comfortable position for his thoroughly cramped erection, wondering if he dared loosen the button and zipper or if Sherlock had other specific plans for him. His fingers itched to follow Sherlock’s over those dark jeans.

A move so smooth and easy it had to be practiced popped open the top button on Sherlock’s jeans and John’s erection screamed in envy.  The rest of him screamed in want.  Sherlock spread his fingers wide, hands resting on sweat-slick abdominals as he rotated his hips in time with the music.  The jeans slipped down his hips just the least bit, just enough John noticed.  Oh Christ.  Just an inch more smooth snowy skin.  He moaned and bit his lip.

Sherlock’s grin might has well have had fangs.  “How bad do you want it, John?”

“Bad enough I already tried twice and got nannied to death instead.” It had sounded far more annoyed and far less breathless in his brain. “Come here and I’ll help show you how much.”

 _Sodding sadist!_  John was tempted to strangle the beauty before him when Sherlock laughed.  He might have, if Sherlock hadn’t maintained perfect rhythm as he stalked close.  Long fingers cupped where John ached the most, massaging hard, sending waves of alternating black and white over him.  “Let’s burn a little of the alcohol out of your system, shall we?”

“Ohgodyeah.” Finally within reach again. John found ebony curls with his fingers and held on tight, sucking at the hollow of Sherlock’s throat again as talented fingers nearly brought him to tears. The deep, low growl across his ear just made him push up into Sherlock’s touch more. He pulled in a breath. “Please.”

“Soon.  I promise it’s going to be very, very good, John.”  The deep baritone rumbled through John’s bones.  “Do you want me to finish?  Do you want me to strip the rest of the way for you?  I will if you want.  I’ve never done that for anyone else.”

“Oh, God, don’t make me think. Don’t want to think.” Maybe if he pressed close enough, kissed and suckled hard enough, he could get all of Sherlock he wanted. Needed. “All..new territory...anyway...just surprise me. God, please...”

Sherlock pulled away.  

 _Bloody fucking SADIST!_ John glowered as Sherlock slipped off his shoes and socks without needing to resort to using his hands.

 _Oh.  Oh!  Well, okay._  Sherlock’s zipper opened.  Black denim was peeled from impossibly narrow hips and lean thighs.  Yeah, still a sadist—but damn, the view was great from where John sat.  The bulge in Sherlock’s black silk briefs pleased John no end.  John had no doubts he could help with that.  None at all.  And said so as his infuriating, beautiful flatmate stepped out of the jeans.  

“I’m sure you could.”  Sherlock hooked his thumbs in the black briefs and pulled them down.

Sweet merciful heaven—the image of a demigod wasn’t just for the dance moves. As if Michelangelo’s David had come to life and stepped off his marble base. Perfect proportions, that fair, fair skin absolutely all over. Well...except for one rather impressive spot. But even then, the dusky blush of aroused flesh blended so right with everything else. John looked up into mercury eyes. “You’re...God, you’re just beautiful.”

“So I’ve been told.  I’m glad you concur.”  

_Egotist._

“I believe you’re feeling up to joining me now?”  The smirk returned.

 _Brat._ John decided he wasn’t feeling overly predictable at the moment. He leaned back in the chair, clasping his hands behind his head and returning the smirk. “Oh, I don’t know. Hell of a view. Seems a shame to waste it. Besides, you pulled away the last two times. How do I know you’re not just teasing me again?”

Grey eyes sparked and filled his vision.   _This must be how a rabbit feels when the panther strikes_.

That was actually John’s last coherent thought for some minutes as his world became fragments.  Sherlock’s hands were everywhere.  At once.   _How the hell does he do that?_  Clothing just seemed to vanish, leaving bare skin for Sherlock to torture with dexterous fingers and a far too-talented mouth.  Dear God, that mouth!  John knew he babbled some nonsense about Sherlock’s mouth because the man laughed and called him an idiot.  Just before biting a line of marks from John’s navel to the thatch of dark brown hair at his crotch.  The babbling turned to curses mixed with a goodly amount of begging.  It didn’t take a Holmesian genius to figure out Sherlock liked to hear John beg.

He didn’t even realize his eyes were closed until the sensation of a mobile tongue gliding over his slit made him look up in a hurry. _Holy..._ A groan and a gasp battled to be the first over his lips.

“You will never—”  Sherlock swallowed him down.  Whole.  All of him.  One long gulp.  John nearly fainted.  Strong suction pulled at John as Sherlock slowly released him.  “—have cause to regret—”  And swallowed him again.   _Bloody hell!_  “—choosing to be with me—”   _I’m dying.  No, I’m dead and this is some weird version of Heaven.  Or maybe Hell._  “—like this.  Never.  I swear it.”

 _Heaven. Definitely Heaven._ John’s hand shook as he found a satiny cheek. “I know. Even if you didn’t swear. I know.” The words felt right and strange at the same time. “It’s so good, Sherlock. God, it feels so good.”

 _Sherlock’s mouth is incredible._  John shouldn’t be surprised   _Everything about the man is amazing._  John’s hips thrust up into the wet heat.   _God._

“Want me to take the edge off so I can make the next time last?  Some down time for a while?  Or do you want to just ride this adrenalin rush until I’m done with you?  I do have plans for you, John.”  The predator gleamed in Sherlock’s eyes and his grin.  The grin that hovered at the tip of John’s cock. “Grand plans.”

“The...oh, God...” He didn’t want it to end, didn’t want to have to recover for hours before he could have more. John fought for oxygen and brain function to his speech centers. “...edge...want...to...last...”

Sherlock Holmes possessed the most evil laugh John had ever heard in his life.  He also possessed the ability to vanish.  Oddly, John had assumed the bloody damned magical swishy coat was required for that talent to work, but apparently Sherlock could pull it off naked, too.   _Wanker.  Leave a man when he’s hard as frigging London Bridge in January and...Oh.  Well, yeah.  Cock ring.  Yeah, that would help._

John’s heart hammered as Sherlock held up the ring and grinned.  “Let’s get this on you and then let’s get you to bed.”


	7. Together

“Sherlock!”  The wail filled John’s bedroom.  Just like Sherlock’s fingers filled John.  He shook under the assault.  So good.  Lush mouth on his belly as his body arched into Sherlock’s touch, every part on the verge of shattering.

Of course, he’d been on the verge of shattering for... _God, half an hour?_ The sex-hazed memory of glancing at the clock when Sherlock first eased him down onto his bed confirmed what his eyes saw now. Or sort of saw. Mostly it was all a blur of sensory overload from being systematically finger-and-mouth-fucked for the past thirty minutes. God, Sherlock hadn’t been kidding about the “therapy job” being plebeian. The genuine feeling between them catapulted this into a whole other universe.

He wouldn’t survive the night at this rate but didn’t care.  Cardiac arrest or a stroke were completely worth this level of unimaginable bliss.  Christ, his flatmate not only looked like a sex god, he was one.  John wailed again, vision whiting out as Sherlock brushed his prostate.   _Oh God, and this is just fingers!_  What would it be like when the man finally got around to serious business?  “Please...”  John sounded hoarse.  All that screaming, he supposed.  

Sherlock paused in his cataloguing of each and every pore across John’s skin and looked up, an expression of such affection on his face as John had never seen. His fingers moved a bit inside John, pressing out in all directions, like checking the give on a pair of shoes, before withdrawing slowly. Then he smiled and shifted, easing John’s legs apart a bit more with his knees, bracing his arms on either side of John’s shoulders before leaning down to brush his lips over John’s. “Say it one more time. With my name attached.”

Oh, thank you, God!  “Please, Sherlock, please.”  An extra couldn’t hurt.  “God, please!  Just...just...now?”   _Before I die.  Before I combust._  

“Now, I think. Yes. I think now will do quite nicely.” Sherlock grinned at John’s glower as he reached over onto the nightstand for a condom.

The soft rasp of the wrapper just ramped John’s breathing speed up again. He tried to get his eyes to focus on the sight of his lover sheathing himself, but Sherlock reached over and massaged the tip of John’s throbbing and still-ringed arousal, causing another visual white-out.

Pressure, glorious, perfect pressure where those fingers had abandoned him.  Was he chanting “yes” over and over?  Didn’t matter.  Nothing mattered but Sherlock pushing into him, filling him, stretching him.  John’s fingers bit into alabaster shoulders, the muscles toned as the stone they resembled.  “Hard.  Please.  I want to feel you.  Want to know you’ve had me.”

“You’ll know.” It sounded like Sherlock was having to catch his breath as well. “I promise, John, you will know. I just...was making sure knowing wouldn’t equal serious hurting.” He drew back, almost all the way out, before thrusting deep in a single smooth motion.

“Oh!  Yeah, like that!  Perfect.  You’re...perfect.”  John’s vision cleared just enough to catch the look on Sherlock’s face.  God, he wanted to remember that.  Always.  The next thrust robbed him of the ability to speak and he just moaned, lifting his pelvis to meet Sherlock.  

Slim fingers found the release catch on the cock ring and it slipped away, replaced by a gentle grip that massaged away a bit of tenderness and sent the pitch of the moan in John’s throat a little higher. Another long, smooth thrust capped it to a whimper and then a scream.

Release ripped through John, the world a blazing white inferno centered on Sherlock and the fucking glorious sensations the man created.  This wasn’t sex; this was some bloody out-of-body experience, except John had never been more aware of his body.  Every cell of it.  Every nerve.  And all of them were firing at once.  The bleeding best high _ever_.

He could still feel Sherlock pounding him, as he came down, each thrust an aftershock against his prostate.  It almost hurt.  Almost.  Too high on dopamine to really care.  Too high on Sherlock.  

_I want to see him. I need to see him like this._ John peeled his eyes open just as Sherlock paused, breath ragged and shallow. Dear God! Bathed in moonlight, glistening with sweat, every lean muscle corded tight as violin strings, eyes squeezed shut. Hard desire pulsed and twitched inside John. Sherlock visibly trembled, his white teeth caught in his full lower lip. John frowned. “Are you okay?”

A shaky nod and groan as his lover— _God!  My lover! Mine!_ —powered into him.   _Damn, I’m gonna be sore in the morning._  He grinned.  He looked forward to that.  He managed to lift a hand and stroke Sherlock’s cheek.   _God._  Beyond gorgeous.  “Let go.  Just let go.”

Silver eyes shot open, pupils blown wide, and a deep audible gasp—which sounded a great deal like John’s name—rounded Sherlock’s mouth, filling the space between them. Muscles snapped taut and glorious heat filled John, almost as full as his heart at the sight.

“Bloody glorious.”  John caught Sherlock as he collapsed, the detective’s weight and heat welcome.  He didn’t want to relinquish this joining just yet.  “I’ve got you.  It’s okay.  I’ve got you.”

Soft lips nuzzled against his ear in a sort of semi-conscious nod. Gentle fingers threaded into his hair, pulling him close. “John.”

John hummed in response, as content as Sherlock sounded.  He couldn’t recall ever being this...at peace.  Of having this feeling of being where he should be.  He stroked satiny skin and just revelled in the physical presence of his consulting detective.  The grin blossomed, full and feeling so good on John’s lips.  His.  Yeah.  He could get used to that.  He flexed his ankle against the back of one long white thigh just because he could.  And anything else would take more effort than John had in him at the moment.

 

* * *

* * *

 

“So, you unconscious?”

John didn’t bother moving. His head was far too comfortable on Sherlock’s chest. “Yep.” He smiled and pressed a half-kiss to the warm flesh under his cheek. “Possibly...comatose.”

A deep chuckle vibrated against his ear and errant fingers trailed slowly down his spine. “Blissfully, it would appear.”

“Oh, beyond bliss.” John let his own hand wander over taut abs. “You?”

“Energized. I feel I can take on every case in London. Simultaneously.”

“There’s a thought to terrify the Yard.” John shifted, stretching a bit, scooting up so he could curl tightly against his lover’s shoulder. “Give me five minutes to catch my breath and we’ll go tackle them.”

“Sleep.  You've earned it.  I'm thinking.  Who would have thought sex could be so mentally clarifying? It's quite intriguing, John.  You may be far superior to cocaine.”

“Oh, good. Then I can quit pretending I don’t know you still do it on rare occasions.” He traced a path up Sherlock’s forearm, over the ubiquitous nicotine patches, enjoying the shiver it elicited.

“Only when the boredom is completely unbearable.”  The weight of Sherlock’s hand on John’s hair just added to the unbelievable _comfort_ of the moment.  “Sex will be a most acceptable substitute.  You will have to make yourself available to me when the criminal element becomes hateful and dull, dear John.  Staying home and letting me love you is much preferable to a day at the clinic, in any case.”

Something not-so-nice wriggled in the pit of John’s stomach. “‘Make myself available’?” He pushed up onto one arm, staring at Sherlock. “I’m not going to be just your fix, Sherlock! What the hell do you take me for?” Some of the anger from the night before came back, mixed with a sharp pain right below his breastbone. “You said I wasn’t just a...a trinket.” He had to swallow bile back at the sight of those perfectly calm grey eyes regarding him. “I’m not going to be your freebie shag, sure as hell not going to risk my job over staying home and letting you—” He blinked. And glowered at the soft smile curving the edges of Sherlock’s mouth. “Oh.”

“‘Love’ is not a word I use lightly.  It’s not a word I use in connection with myself at all, John.”  The smile remained firmly in place.  “You’re wrong, though.  You very much are my fix.  An addiction I will never be able to shake.  I’ve known that for some time now.”  Sherlock swept his hand in an elegant gesture encompassing their twined forms.  “This is merely part of it.”

John nodded. “I’m sorry. I just...after what you said to me last night, about how I’d never regret choosing this...what you said just now started out a lot clinical and I guess I just stopped listening for a minute.” He leaned close and drifted a kiss over Sherlock’s lips. “I love you, too. Probably from the moment I ripped you up over that damn pill with the cabbie and called you an idiot in return and you just smiled.”

“I know.  I suspected something...special then.”  Sherlock stretched.  “A friend.  Someone...not boring.”  The lean form relaxed, long fingers drawing designs on John’s shoulder.   “Never doubt you’re mine.  I won’t change.  I’m still me.  There will still be days when you’ll be thick and slow and your tiny mind won’t keep up with me.  But you’ll still be mine.”

“Fair enough.” John laid back, pulling Sherlock over to rest on his shoulder for a while. “But if you toss another hissy fit on me like you did over ‘A Study in Pink,’ I’m not going to walk out.” A grin surfaced as he stared up at the ceiling. “I’ll shut the door, pin you on that sofa, shag you blind, and when you’re a brainless moaning mass on the leather, _then_ I’ll go for a walk and cool down for an hour.”

“You have very odd ideas of punishment, doctor.”

“Never said it was a punishment. But it might keep me from wanting to strangle you.” He let his fingers drift in Sherlock’s hair for several minutes, then pressed a kiss to dark curls. “And I love watching you striptease just for me, by the way. You’re gorgeous.”

“I’ll have to repeat the performance.”  The devilish glint in Sherlock’s eyes promised pleasures John greatly anticipated.  “You should rest.”

“So should you.” But John settled a little more comfortably in the bed and let his eyes drift closed as he snorted softly. “Cuddly...right.”

Sherlock chuckled and wrapped an arm about John.  “Yes.  Very.”  Warm lips pressed to John’s temple.  “I’ll explore the further ramifications of your cuddle factor when we wake.  I’m sure the process and the results will prove interesting.”

 

**  
END**

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Panther in a Neon Jungle.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10357236) by [Vvulpes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vvulpes/pseuds/Vvulpes)




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